Tell Me a Story
by thewrinkleintime
Summary: "Time heals all things". But he knows that isn't true, not really.


AN: This was a little hard to write. It's based on my own experiences with grief as I lost my only parent when I was 14. Also, I'm only partway through season 2 right now, so there might be some factual errors, I'm not sure.

There's some slight self-harm, but it's not a major plot point.

As always, feedback is appreciated, but if you just want to say 'hey I liked your story', or 'hey you really suck at writing go back to studying calculus' that's fine too.

* * *

In the weeks leading up to the anniversary Stiles is constantly on edge. He's more restless than usual, but also strangely reticent and unwilling to talk. He listens to the conversations around him but doesn't participate himself.

The others notice of course, but there's not much they can do. Scott shoots worried glances at Stiles when he thinks Stiles isn't looking, and offers to play video games or do lacrosse drills to get his mind off things. Stiles declines, and instead opts to spend his time reading in his room, attempting to escape his thoughts through printed worlds. He has trouble concentrating though, and his thoughts keep coming back to the same thing.

It hits him sometimes, a cruel reminder that nothing he could do or say would change anything, that nothing could bring his mom back. Stiles isn't sure that he would bring her back, even if he could. They were different now, puzzle pieces with jagged edges, slowly softening and changing shape to rejoin, just him and his dad. He had often wished, in the weeks following his mom's death, that she would come back, suddenly appear in the living room, or making dinner in the kitchen, and things could be normal again, it would be alright. Now he isn't so sure. He still wants his mom back of course, but he suspects that it wouldn't fix everything. They were broken in a way that left deep scars, puckered skin and sharp edges to show for their loss.

Stiles stares at the calendar, at the black and white box marked red with pen. As if he would have forgotten. As if it were possible to forget. Sometimes he could pretend, put it out of his mind for a while. But the finality of death was unforgiving, and the harsh fall back to reality inevitable.

He tries to remember his mom's voice, the way she smiled at him, how she would sing as she cooked. He can remember these things, but the details are blurry and he finds that the more he tries to picture them, the farther they seem to slip away.

_Time_ _heals all things._ But he knows that isn't true, not really. Time has changed things, has let him get through the day without thinking about it every minute, but it hasn't healed anything. That was a useless platitude said by those who didn't know what it was like to have a part of yourself violently ripped from your body. The grief isn't any less intense now than it was back then, but he has learned how to live with it most days, to keep it from consuming his very self. There are times though, when he can feel it eating away at his mind, and he fears that it might not leave anything untouched, that it could paint everything gray and warp his vision so deeply that only his memories would be real.

It didn't feel like it had been years since her death; it was yesterday, it was an eternity ago. Sometimes it was now.

* * *

The anniversary is a yesterday kind of day. He doesn't talk, hardly acknowledges anyone, does the bare minimum that is required of him. He knows everyone is concerned about him, but he's too busy holding himself together to respond to any of their questions. He's barely managing as it is.

He drags himself through the school day, ignoring both the pitying and confused looks the other students give him. Harris yells at him to pay attention, but Stiles just stares into space. Finally someone says something, and Harris looks slightly abashed. He leaves Stiles alone for the rest of the period.

* * *

Stiles sits in his room after school, staring at the wall and trying not to think.

He startles when the door opens and looks up to see Derek standing in his doorway. Stiles is confused, Derek doesn't even like him, so what is he doing here? He must have said that out loud, because Derek gives him one of those looks, but doesn't actually say anything. He just crosses the room and sits on Stiles' bed, reaching out and pulling Stiles' hand away from his arm. Stiles doesn't understand until he looks down and sees that he had been sinking his nails into his forearm, leaving bloody half-moons behind. He thinks it's odd that he doesn't feel any pain, that he doesn't feel anything at all. Derek gets up and heads towards the bathroom, coming back with some first aid supplies. Stiles has remained numb until now, but as soon as Derek opens the bottle of antiseptic he's overwhelmed with memories of the hospital, of the harsh clean smell he's come to associate with death. His heart speeds up and his breathing falls out of rhythm. Derek looks from the antiseptic to Stiles and back again before quickly replacing the cap. He places a hand on Stiles' shoulder, firm but gentle, a reminder to stay in the now, to keep grounded. But Stiles is too far gone, memories of 'I'm so sorry' and 'there was nothing we could do' having taken over.

When Stiles comes back to himself Derek is still there. His arm is wrapped in gauze now, and the antiseptic is nowhere to be seen. Derek is sitting at Stiles' desk, reading something that looks insanely complicated. He puts the book down though, when he feels Stiles' gaze on him.

"Feeling present?"

Stiles appreciates that Derek didn't ask if he was okay, because that is so obviously not the case.

"Yeah, I think so. More than I was."

Derek nods and returns to his book. Eventually the silence becomes too uncomfortable and Stiles has to say something.

"Why are you here?"

Derek puts the book down again and takes a few moments before speaking.

"Because I know what it's like."

Stiles thinks about everything that Derek has lost, the number of people killed in the fire, the way he carries the guilt around with him even now.

He stares at his hands and fiddles with the medical tape holding the gauze together. His arm stings now, and he's a bit embarrassed for freaking out the way he did earlier. Stiles suddenly feels ashamed for being such a mess.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"But-"

"You're allowed to miss her, Stiles," Derek interrupts.

But that's the thing, Stiles misses his mom so much it blinds him sometimes, the grief spreads through his veins and nothing else seems to exist.

Stiles doesn't realize he's crying until his vision blurs and he feels his cheeks become wet. Derek moves back over to the bed, pulling Stiles into a hug and if Stiles weren't so wrapped up in grief he would marvel at the idea of Mr. Sourwolf giving anyone a hug. But Stiles just leans into it, resting his head against Derek's shoulder and letting himself fall apart.

Eventually Stiles' sobs slow to occasional shudders. He doesn't pull away though, and Derek doesn't let go. Instead he lowers them both to the bed, keeping Stiles in an embrace. Stiles buries his face in Derek's shirt, breathes in the smell of skin and detergent and Derek and before long he's fallen asleep.

* * *

When Stiles wakes it's to a hand running through his hair and another rubbing circles into his back. He's still tired, but it's more of an emotional exhaustion than a physical feeling.

"What time is it?" Stiles asks Derek, voice rough with sleep.

"Nine pm. Do you want me to go?"

"No."

"Tell me a story then."

"About what?"

"Your mother, a good memory."

Stiles thinks. There are plenty of good memories of his mom, but he doesn't know which one to share. Doesn't know if he wants to share.

In the end he goes with the time his mother brought home a bunch of Mexican migrant workers from the grocery store.

By the time he's done with the story, both he and Derek are grinning.

"She really did that?"

"Yep. And it wasn't just once, either. She did that kind of stuff all the time. Once she invited in these missionaries who came to the door. She said she didn't want to talk about religion, but she had some food cooking and asked if they wanted to join us for dinner. I came downstairs and found a bunch of Mormons eating quesadillas at the kitchen table."

He feels more than hears Derek laugh. He decides he likes the sound. He takes one of Derek's hands in his and gives it a light squeeze.

"Thank you."

Derek murmurs something unintelligible in response, which Stiles takes to mean 'you're welcome'.

They pass the next few hours in quiet contemplation, the silence broken every now and then by a request from Derek for Stiles to tell another story. By the time Stiles is ready to fall asleep for the night his face hurts from smiling so much and he feels a kind of contentment with his grief that he hadn't felt before. He doesn't think the sadness is going anywhere anytime soon, but he thinks that maybe he can balance it with good things, with funny stories and hugs from Derek, with lacrosse and video games, with Scott, with his dad.

* * *

Stiles pulls Derek along by the hand, weaving between graves until he finds his mother's plot.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

"I know," Stiles says, "but I want to."

Eventually he stops at a small headstone. He pulls Derek close and smiles down at the ground, where a fresh bunch of flowers is leaning against the grave.

"Mom, I'd like you to meet someone."


End file.
